


I Will Come Back to Life (but only for you)

by longhairedbucky, SkysongMA



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Barbershop quartet plus Clint, Bucky has a Good Day, M/M, Multi, Sam bakes a lot, not Endgame compliant in any way, that's really all that happens in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longhairedbucky/pseuds/longhairedbucky, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkysongMA/pseuds/SkysongMA
Summary: "Steven Grant Rogers," Bucky says in his best imitation of Steve's Ma up in arms. "Is this body paint?"Steve shrugs, neither agreeing nor denying. "I thought maybe if you were having trouble getting started, we could find a way to help you out."Bucky's mouth quirks. "Ninety-six years, and you still pick me up like that? How did you ever get anywhere without me?"Steve's blush darkens, and he kisses the corner of Bucky's mouth. "Honestly? I have no idea."





	I Will Come Back to Life (but only for you)

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally self indulgent fluff from beginning to end. No conflict, no nothing. Lovely art by Longhairedbucky!

Bucky wakes up alone. Not a bad thing. That asshole he calls a roommate has let him sleep in for once. Steve Rogers might have said fuck you to responsibility after the whole Thanos thing, but that apparently doesn’t apply to five AM runs, and he always manages to stub his toe on something and wake Bucky up. Then Bucky has to go out with him, if only to curse the day he met Steven Grant Rogers and call down a plague on his ancestors.

(Rediscovering his Jewish ancestry had been one of the best parts of getting his memory back. He wasn't complaining anymore—he was _kvetching_ , continuing the grand tradition of angry old Jewish men shaking their fists at the sky.)

Bucky slowly lifts his head from the nest of pillows, squinting at the light peeking through the drawn curtains. Why today, though? 

Still squinting, he looks over at the calendar. The top half features golden retrievers with bandanas tied around their necks, posing in various adorable ways. (Steve still doesn’t understand why everyone on the team buys him dog merch. Bucky will never explain it.) The bottom half has one date circled.

Oh. Yeah.

Bucky mulls over going back to bed. After all, his bed is so comfortable. Steve, for some deeply cursed, ass backwards reason, likes hard beds, but Bucky insisted on the softest, most luxurious bed America's money could buy. If he didn't sink a foot after sitting down, he didn't want it. Steve, after all, can go crawl in bed with Sam in the next room over, and they can enjoy roughing it while Bucky stretches out like a starfish. Sometimes sleeping without his own personal space heater—and blanket hog—is a pleasant change.

But no, he’s awake, and going back to sleep will only court nightmares. He needs to wash his hair anyway.

***

Bucky spends way, way too long in the shower. A bad habit, maybe, but it helped him shake off constant instinct to keep moving, to rush through every mundane task. He’s living, not surviving, blah blah blah.

He takes his time doing his hair, too. Nat doesn’t live with them, but she'll stop by. She likes to play with his hair, and he likes to let her. 

When he goes downstairs, Steve is lounging on the couch reading the paper. Bucky reaches out to ruffle his hair; Steve grabs his wrist without looking up.

"I didn't know they still made paper news in this day and age," Bucky says mildly.

"You say that every morning." Steve tugs on his wrist; Bucky lets himself be pulled down for a kiss, like this is the goddamn 1950s. Or at least how TV makes the '50s look. He doesn’t remember a thing from that decade. 

At this point, he's kissed quite a few people, but nothing in the world is like kissing Steve Rogers. Steve treats every kiss as seriously as the first, with care and thought and sweetness. Like he still needs to coax Bucky into his arms. Like Bucky needs reminding how much they meant to each other.

Bucky flops across Steve's lap, grinning up at him. "Because it's true every morning. I keep thinking they're gonna stop."

"You guys do literally have this conversation every day," Sam points out, leaning out of the kitchen. "I'm worried you're going senile."

"That's what you get for shacking up with two older men," Steve says. He lets go of Bucky's wrist so he can pick his paper back up. 

"Yeah, we're not the one with the problem here," Bucky points out.

"Just for that, I'm not putting chocolate chips in the pancakes," Sam says, ducking back into the kitchen.

"Nobody told me about pancakes." 

Steve glances up. "What did you think we were doing today? It's your birthday."

***

It is a crime Sam Wilson has to spend his time doing anything but making delicious food. Fuck the Air Force and fuck the shield. Sam Wilson’s main superpower is in the kitchen.

Bucky tries to sneak up behind Sam and slip his arms around him, but Sam ducks out of reach, holding the bowl of batter at arm's length. "Sit. This is delicate work, Barnes."

"It's pancakes. I learned how to make 'em when I was five."

It's nice, listing off these facts about himself. Especially since Steve has joined them, so he can nod along with Bucky's words. Bucky doesn't _need_ someone to confirm things, but knowing he didn’t mix up his memories with something that happened on TV is always nice. Trying to remember what’s real and what came out of a comic book is hard enough.

"No offense, Barnes, but your pancakes are dogshit."

Bucky is supposed to bristle, but honestly, the world is better off for him never touching a stove again in his life. So he only shrugs. "I dunno if we can call what you make pancakes anyway. They're like six inches tall."

"It's the trendy thing these days," Steve says. "It's all over YouTube." 

Over a decade out of the ice, and Steve still says YouTube (and Netflix, Hulu, and pretty much any other website) like a word in a foreign language he learned from a book.

Bucky, on the other hand, is a natural scholar of memes, but he likes letting Steve think he's the authority on these things. He doesn't understand rich cultural texts like loss.jpeg anyway.

"I'd appreciate if y'all would stop breathing so loudly," Sam says, ladling the first bit of batter on his griddle. "This is delicate work. These eggs weren't exactly fresh."

Natasha appears in the kitchen. She never seems to enter or leave a room; one moment she's not there, and the next she is. Bucky long ago gave up trying to figure out how it works. She sits on the edge of the table and pushes Bucky's hair away from his face to kiss his temple. "Happy birthday, James."

"Good, somebody competent is here," Sam says. "Could you cut these up for me, Tasha?"

"Only if you pay the toll." She walks over to the counter and points at her cheek. 

Instead, Sam lifts the pancake off the grill and sets it on a waiting plate. Then he puts his hand on Nat's waist and kisses her, bending her back like the romantic hero in the talkies Steve never wanted to admit he liked best back in the day. Steve and Bucky dutifully applaud.

When he lets her go, Nat pats his cheek, smiling that secret little smile tucked up in the corner of her mouth Bucky likes so much. "Well. That's earned you more than just strawberries."

"It's _my_  birthday, you know," Bucky informs them. Saying it out loud is as strange as saying his full name with the title in front, but unlike the title, it fits him properly. He never got to have birthdays when he was younger, but he never got to have a lot of things he has now. Like Steve's hand resting on his thigh.

Sam has already turned his attention back to the single finished pancake. He arranges fresh whipped cream and chocolate sauce on top just so, then sets it in front of Bucky with a flourish. It jiggles like a souffle.

"Only one?" Bucky asks. If he goes thirty seconds without being an asshole, he might actually keel over. "I know I got the cut-rate version of the serum, but this ain't gonna do it for me."

Sam ignores him, turning back to the griddle. Before Bucky can cut into his absurdly fluffy pancake, Nat swoops over and places one strawberry piece on top. 

"I _was_  gonna make you a crepe cake, you know," Sam comments. "But turns out crepes are a huge pain in the ass, and you wouldn't appreciate it anyway."

"I like watching people make those rainbow layer ones," Bucky replies. YouTube is a real highlight of his life these days. Sometimes he still can't do much but lie on the couch and stare at the TV while he gets his brain back in line. Dissociating becomes more difficult when an adorable Japanese woman demonstrates how to make a far too elaborate dessert. If she can put all that effort into making a cookie shaped like Totoro, Bucky can put some into getting himself together.

The whipped cream is starting to melt, so Bucky inhales his pancake. It's light and airy and reeks of vanilla, the kind of thing he used to dream of as a kid imagining what he'd do with a little extra money in his pockets. It's heavenly. The moment he finishes the last bite, Sam is already sliding a fresh one onto his plate.

"I love you so goddamn much," Bucky tells him, and Sam drops another kiss on the top of his head. 

Not a bad start, all things considered.

***

Bucky ought to hate being told what to do. His childhood was nothing but bullshit rules— _don't run so fast, you'll trip and tear your dress; slow down and sit like a lady; stop playing in the mud, that's for boys_ —and the military was more of the same, even if they got his gender right. He was pretty sure Hydra was the worst, but he couldn't remember much of that.

Only... civilian life is so _empty_. He doesn’t go out with the rest of the team unless they really need him, and most of the time, they don't. Otherwise, his life is his own, which shouldn't be confusing, but it _is._

The plan had been to dick around in the park or something once Clint finally showed up, but Clint’s late because shit’s going down, so Nat and Sam head out. Nothing serious, which honestly makes it more irritating. 

"They really need to unionize. Get some proper time off. Strikers back in the day coulda taught them a thing or two," Bucky mutters, setting his chin on the table. 

Steve finally folds up his paper, stroking Bucky's hair. "They oughta be home soon, and then we can all pick up where we left off." He gets up. "C'mon. I wanted to paint anyway."

***

Bucky will never complain about all the people in his life, but having Steve to himself is the best. He likes getting to lay around on the loveseat in Steve's art room that's just for him, half-drowsing in the perfect sunlight coming in through the window while Steve works. When he's thinking about what to do next, he'll wander over to the loveseat and run his fingers through and through Bucky's hair, humming along to the kind of music they listened to as kids.

He's doing that now, and Bucky leans up into the touch. "We didn't have to do anything special, you know," he mumbles, reaching up to catch Steve's hand and kiss his palm.

Steve glances down, tracing his fingers over Bucky's cheek. "It _is_ special, though. You used to do this stuff for me, remember? Went on all those dates with that bakery lady on the second floor just so she'd make me a cake."

"And because she was gorgeous," Bucky murmurs. Sam was sorta surprised when things opened up between all of them, but Steve and Bucky's relationship has always required creative thinking. "And because I wanted cake."

"Sometimes I think it's too easy to get that kind of thing in this day and age. Hard to appreciate it as much when I can walk down to the corner store and get as many as I want with the change in my pocket."

Bucky cracks his eyes open, if only to give Steve the crabby turtle glare he's perfected over the years, the only one that makes Steve at least _pause_ before resuming his bullshit.

"That's crap, and you know it. The future is _awesome._  We can make out in broad daylight if we want. Sam and Nat aren't second class citizens. If we'd stayed where we were, we would've had to wait fifty years for any of that, and even then it woulda sucked." He presses Steve's hand against his cheek. "Complaining's my job, Rogers. Only room for one curmudgeon in this relationship."

"Sorry, I forgot." Steve leans down to kiss him, just lightly.  "You're right, anyway. I shouldn't get upset about it. We missed a lot of time, but we're making up for it now."

"Sure as hell we are." 

Steve straightens. "Don't move. The light is perfect."

Bucky falls asleep to the sound of Steve's pencil scratching over paper. Sometimes he still can't remember what year it is, but that isn't always a bad thing. 

***

Bucky only realizes he drifted off because Steve is nudging him awake. "Sam and Nat are back," he murmurs. "You wanna keep sleeping?" 

Bucky shakes his head, scrubbing the tired out of his eyes. "Nah." He pushes himself up on his elbows. "I was having a good time with you and me. I didn't mean to drop off like that."

"It's nice to see you rest." Steve turns the paper around to show Bucky the picture: himself stretched out on the couch like a cat, face scrunched up and one arm draped over his eyes. Steve's drawings were the first place Bucky saw himself the way he was supposed to be. Now Steve doesn’t have to change anything. The thought still takes getting used to.

Steve sets his sketchbook down. "Anyway, Sam and Nat are grownups. I'm sure they can find a way to occupy themselves." 

"And that we'll hear all about it," Bucky murmurs, lips curving in a smile. Their house has thin walls, but it's a feature, not a bug. 

"Exactly." Steve digs through his little case of art supplies. "Anyway, I have your present."

Bucky rolls over to rest his chin on the arm of the couch. "You have my attention." He's spent far too long of his life trying to get Steve to stop bitching about gratuitous gift giving. When Bucky first came out from the ice, he had a little trouble remembering, but nowadays he's back to the way he should be: taking all gifts as his due for gracing those around him with his presence. He was faking it then and he's faking it now, but it still feels pretty good.

Steve comes up with a little box—handmade and painted, because Steve is the most extra person on the planet and always will be—which he sets on the edge of the couch for Bucky to inspect.

The top of the box features a painting of the village Bucky lived in during his time in Wakanda, complete with goats. He still misses them, but not the constant dry heat and the sunburn on the back of his neck. Or Shuri’s insults. He never once managed to get a good burn on her.

Inside is a palm-sized sketchbook, one of the kind Steve likes that lays flat when you open it, and a travel tin of watercolor paint. There are also several larger tubs of paint, though they don't look like watercolors or even oil paint. 

"Shuri showed me all those landscapes you did in Wakanda," Steve comments, his tone just light enough to show he's nervous. 

"Shuri's a narc," Bucky says, but it's only habit. 

"Thought it'd be something nice for when we're out. You know, since we both suck at chess. Us old guys gotta have something to do in the park besides feed pigeons."

Bucky runs his finger over the leather cover of the sketchbook. He's not really good, but he had to find a way to pass the time back in Wakanda. He could've gone into the city, but he wanted the peace and quiet he only found on the fringes, the parts they showed to tourists before T'Challa opened the doors. Painting quieted the parts of his mind that couldn't be fixed with technology. And it felt like a way to reach out to Steve while they were separated.

" _You_  suck at chess," he says, but he's smiling. "What're these?" The pots are unlabeled. 

Steve turns pink, which makes Bucky raise his eyebrows. 

He opens one and sniffs it. Chemically fruity, like condoms. 

"Steven Grant Rogers," he says in his best imitation of Steve's Ma up in arms. "Is this _body paint_?"

Steve shrugs, neither agreeing nor denying. "I thought maybe if you were having trouble getting started, we could find a way to help you out."

Bucky's mouth quirks. "Ninety-six years, and you still pick me up like that? How did you ever get anywhere without me?"

Steve's blush darkens, and he kisses the corner of Bucky's mouth. "Honestly? I have no idea."

Bucky clucks. "'Course you don't. Let's get a look at these." 

He lines them up on the back of the loveseat. More colors than he expected: the primaries, the secondaries, plus pink, white, and black. "Big plans, huh?"

Steve shrugs again and begins to unbutton his shirt. "You could say that."

"Oh, I see how it is," Bucky says, but he can't keep the smile off his face. "This is a present for me, but we're gonna do it on you."

"I've finally got a little more real estate, so yeah, I'd say so."

Bucky can bitch about Steve goading him all he wants, but at the end of the day, he's never able to resist the bait. "Lay down, then. I don't feel like straining my neck."

Steve folds his shirt and sets it aside. Bucky settles on top, considering the bare skin laid out in front of him. The blank canvas is always a little intimidating. He traces his index finger down Steve's sternum, just to see him tense. Steve's always been weak like that—the smallest little thing and he's putty in Bucky's hands. Or anybody's hands, really.

He puts his finger on Steve's cheek to turn his head, enjoying the way Steve lets himself be manipulated. "We're going to pride this year, right?"

Steve frowns at the far wall, like he's trying to figure out where he lost track of the conversation. Or maybe like all the blood's not in his head anymore, if the boner is anything to go by. Bucky shifts his weight, just to be an ass, and grins when Steve bites his lip. "I mean, sure? I probably should. They keep asking me to be grand marshal, and I felt bad turning 'em down, especially the last couple years."

"Good. Then we'll have some legitimate uses for this scandalous purchase of yours." He tries to imitate _his_ ma this time, and he knows he gets it right because Steve cringes. He picks through the paint to find the ones he wants. The colors aren't quite right, but the feeling's what counts. Pink, purple, blue, because his favorite thing, even after all these years, is watching Steve bristle when someone tries to put him in a box. 

Steve narrows his eyes. "I realized there's a flaw in my plan here."

"Hmm?" Bucky tilts Steve's head the other direction for the poly flag.

"There's no mirror in this room."

"Just gonna have to trust me then, aren't you, Stevie? Maybe if you're good I won't paint a big dick all over your chest."

"You're gonna paint a dick on me no matter what I do. I knew that much."

Bucky wants to be offended, but it's fair. He recently learned he can make the little spider kid choke laughing by mentioning the word _penis_ in casual conversation, after all, and he's exploited this enough to almost make him feel ashamed of himself. Almost. 

***

The dick doesn't go on Steve's chest, though. Bucky makes the nipples into eyes for a giant smiley face instead, mostly so he can trace his fingers slowly over Steve's stomach and watch his muscles twitch as his breath hitches. 

"I should put a meat stamp on you. Grade A American beef."

Steve doesn't answer, but Bucky's working his pants off at that point, and Steve immediately loses all words the second anybody pays any mind to his cock. 

***

Bucky ends up having to redo the smiley face and the beef stamp, as well as the second bi flag on Steve's hip, when Steve gets spunk everywhere. As it turns out, body paint doesn't taste half bad.

***

Eventually, Bucky ends up on his back, tracing circles in the carpet while Steve looks him up and down. 

"Jesus, Stevie, are you gonna gesso me first or something? I promise this ain't gonna be museum quality whatever you do. Body paint isn't acid free. I'll get all streaky in the sunlight." He can't muster his usual level of affable grump, though. He makes fun of Steve, but one time coming and he's a puddle on the floor.  

"Were you always this much of a pain in my ass?" Steve says, but he's still got his artist face on.

"Can't believe you had the audacity to ask me that. I'm disgusted with you. I really am."

Steve ignores him, tilting up his chin. "I shoulda told you to shave."

"You like the scruff, don't lie." 

"Yeah, but not the point." He draws something on the bare part of Bucky's cheek with quick, sure strokes. "Now hold still."

He turns his attention to Bucky's chest. Bucky keeps his eyes on the ceiling—because he wants to be surprised, not because it bothers him anymore. All of his scars have faded, from the ones on the base of his ribs to the angry lines leading to his shoulder, so he can stand to look for more than a few minutes. Still be nice to have something legitimately good to see, though.

Steve finishes there, and Bucky clucks because he's got an image to maintain. "Took you long enough, Rogers."

Teasing Steve while he's thinking art is never any fun, though. His brain's somewhere else. 

"That's why I tried to draw in the first place, you know," Bucky comments as Steve taps his lips.

"Huh?" Steve raises his eyes, whatever he was imagining vanishing from his face.

"'Cause it helped you see things differently. I needed that."

"Did it work?"

"What do you think?" Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow. He smirks, but the question is still half serious.

Steve bends over Bucky to kiss him, careful not to muss the design on his chest. It's a good answer.

***

To get to the bathroom, they have to walk naked through the living room. Sam's door is closed, and true to form, they are not being quiet, but Clint is on the couch, watching soccer on Steve's oversized TV. He glances at them, then sighs. Clint has a very particular sigh: somewhere between "I'm too old for this" and "What is life even."  _I missed all the good shit,_  he signs.

 _You_ were _late_ , Steve signs back.

Clint shakes his head and turns his attention back to the TV, pointedly removing his hearing aid. 

Steve glances at Bucky, his mouth twitching, and Bucky breaks. They laugh their way into the bathroom like a couple of stupid teenagers. 

When they can breathe again, Steve puts his hands on Bucky's shoulder and turns him to face the large mirror over the sink. Bucky loves that mirror. The sight of himself half-naked is a concrete reminder of what decade it is when he stumbles in here half-awake after strange dreams.

Steve took forever painting Bucky, but he did a good job with a limited palette. On Bucky's cheek is one of those bears they made to go with the Cap bears back in the '40s. They still get a couple in the mail every other week or so. Only Steve put a big grumpy frown on the painting, which is fair. And there's trans flags in mirror versions of Steve's bi flags: Bucky's other cheek, his shoulder, his hip. 

The standout, of course, is Bucky's chest. It's the Brooklyn skyline, the way they remember it, the version that still overrides Bucky's mental map of the city when he's trying to figure out which train to take home. The faded scars on his shoulder are lens flare, broken out into rainbow colors.

Bucky shakes his head, but he's grinning. "You fucking sap."

"You love it."

"I do." 

Bucky pulls Steve down for a kiss, and they fumble backwards into the shower. Steve gropes for the knob, and they both hiss and jerk back when the water comes out cold. 

"I swear to God, Clint only comes over here to use up all our hot water," Bucky mutters.

"It'll come back," Steve says. He traces a finger through the dripping paint on Bucky's chest. "I shoulda taken a picture. This came out better than I thought it would."

"Only 'cause you've got such a handsome model."

Steve kisses his temple. "Truth." He stops, suddenly, and glances down at himself. Bucky raises his eyebrows. "The dick. I forgot to look for the dick."

Bucky pauses, then starts snickering again. "I didn’t bother putting it back after _someone_  messed up all my hard work." He catches Steve's eye, and the two of them clutch each other laughing as the paint melts off.

***

The hot water does eventually return, but they spend long enough in the shower that it disappears again, startling them both while they're distracted with more important things.

***

When they finally get out of the shower and put clothes on, Sam, Nat, and Clint are all back in the kitchen. Clint is lounging at the table because he couldn't be trusted with a kitchen knife if his life depended on it. Nat is swirling batter in a pan with the same expertise she applies to everything. Sam is weighing a bag of powdered sugar with the kind of concentration usually reserved for jewelers measuring gemstones. Only when he’s satisfied does he glance at Steve and Bucky.

"Since you guys were taking so goddamn long, I decided we should make you a crepe cake after all," Sam says. 

"You mean I decided when you said you didn't know how to make crepes," Nat replies. She flips the crepe, counting down on her fingers before dropping it out onto a waiting plate. "See? That's all there is to it."

"That's all there is to it," Sam mutters, shaking his head. "Get over here, Steve. I need some super soldier arms for all this whipped cream."

Bucky once made the mistake of asking what was wrong with the stuff that came in a can. He has since learned the error of his ways, but it was a good lesson

***

The cake is a lot of work, which should make Bucky feel guilty, but he's learned to appreciate the things other people do for him. Or that's what he tells his shrink, anyway. Mostly he likes watching Sam curse as he flubs crepe after crepe while Nat turns them out like it's nothing. She even makes the colored ones. He would wonder how Nat knows he likes those videos, but Nat knows everything, always.

He also enjoys listening to Steve whine about making all the whipped cream by hand even though they pointedly bought Sam a Kitchenaid for Christmas, mostly because Steve doesn't mean it and Sam ignores him.

***

The cake has to chill in the fridge for some ridiculous amount of time, which defeats the point of making a cake in the first place if you ask Bucky. But when he points this out, Sam yells "Crumb coat and chill!" because Bucky isn't the only one in this house addicted to Cake YouTube.

They end up watching baseball instead. The two guys providing commentary are extremely boring, so Nat and Sam create their own while Steve and Bucky hiss and boo at them for understanding absolutely nothing about baseball.

Again, the future has _some_  perks: back in the day, baseball was dull. They hit way more homers now.

***

By the time the game is over, the cake is finally ready. They put numbers on top, which Bucky pretends to be miffed at. "Listen, the only perk of being this fucking old is all the candles. And yet you do this."

"There's giving you what you want for your birthday, and then there's setting the house on fire," Steve points out. "This is our first place that hasn’t been smashed up by a bunch of alien monsters or whatever. Let's not break our streak."

Bucky makes a fart noise at him. Steve ignores him with his usual grace and dignity, which is to say he puts Bucky in a headlock. They break apart when Nat clears her throat and points out the cake is best fresh from the fridge.

***

"I gotta admit," Bucky says, after his third piece. "This was worth all the work." 

" _You're_ worth all the work, James," Nat informs him, combing her fingers through his hair. "Anyway, Sam needed the practice."

"Man, don't rub it in," Sam moans, slumping across the table. None of his crepes made it into the cake. 

"You oughta be used to this by now," Clint says. "Tasha's job is making the rest of us look bad."

Nat smirks but doesn't say anything. 

***

In the end all five of them end up in the living room watching _Raiders of the Lost Ark_  because it popped up on TV first. Steve still watches new media like he's gonna be quizzed on it later. Bucky is content to lay sideways with his head on Steve's lap and his legs draped over Sam. He watched the whole trilogy in badly dubbed Romanian, so hearing it in English is always a little weird. He's not sure if the dub was bad, or if he didn't understand the plot of the movie anyway, but he doesn't much care because everyone in the house is draped over him and he's never been so comfortable in his life.

"Did you have a good birthday?" Steve asks him quietly when the credits start.

"What do you think, Rogers?" Barnes says, draping his arm over his eyes so Steve will get the hint to quit asking him questions. For once, Steve does. For once, it’s all pretty great.


End file.
